


Things Left Unsaid

by greygerbil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, Proposal after a near death experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: After Greg just narrowly survived saving Mycroft's life, Mycroft would not blame him for walking away from their relationship. Greg, however, has had other plans for quite a while.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 2
Kudos: 91
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	Things Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TexasDreamer01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/gifts).



There were a few notable frustrations that arose from possessing the kind of mind Mycroft had, but none as great as the one that his body was not always able to keep up with the brain it housed. He had known the attack would come as soon as the man had stepped up to him and Greg, from the flick of his gaze, the lean of his body, the twitch of his hand. However, before he could do more than open his mouth, the knife had already been brandished, and if Greg had not pushed him out of the way, it would have found its way into Mycroft’s stomach.

Greg was, in this, much the opposite of him. In situations such as these, he thought little, but his reflexes took over. They had directed him to put himself between Mycroft and the attacker and, to be fair, for a regular detective from Scotland Yard, he had done very well against a KGB-trained, now for-hire assassin, especially since he’d fought bare-handed. The confrontation had been a matter of seconds which now played out like an hour-long film in Mycroft’s head over and over. Greg had caught the first stab of the blade meant for Mycroft in the side, the thrust angled towards the back. He’d pushed the assassin so they were a few steps from Mycroft, had his head slammed into the wall, but managed to retaliate with an elbow in the stomach of the assassin. Another stab of the knife, but this one sank into his thigh so deep the blade was momentarily stuck and slipped from the attacker’s hand, leaving Greg to grab it and throw it across the rain-wet pavement. The punch Greg threw at the assassin’s face broke the man’s nose, stunned him, and Greg hauled him on the ground and fixed him with his foot. That was when the coppers which onlookers across the street had fetched started shouting and running towards them.

It would have been a dangerous situation without the poison Mycroft had already suspected on the dagger.

The next four hours in the hospital had Mycroft conducting an interrogation via his smart phone after determining the poison, a rare South American blend the hospital had no antidote for, but which one of Mycroft’s agents found in the MI5 vaults and delivered at his command. Success range for survival was fifty-fifty and, of course, this did not account for the stab wound in Greg’s side which had a moderate chance of having pierced vital organs.

Over the afternoon, people joined Mycroft. Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson were delegates from the police station sent to investigate why their colleague had not returned from his lunch break and they had instead gotten a cryptic call from the Security Service informing them of his hospitalisation, though Mycroft suspected they had come mostly for personal reasons, as their nervous questioning of him revealed. John came with Sherlock, who spent his time making snide remarks at Mycroft for not noticing the assassin sooner while John tried half-heartedly to rein him in, probably as aware as Mycroft that Sherlock was simply worried. Mycroft considered informing Greg’s daughter, who went to the University College in Dublin, but decided that there was no reason to bother her yet. If Greg would die from the effects of the poison, by his estimates even the planes Mycroft had access to would not get her here in time and so making her panic was rather pointless. If things went right, Greg could call her himself. Otherwise, Mycroft would find some appropriate way to give his condolences.

The atmosphere in the separated waiting room was perfectly charged, yet Mycroft remained stone-faced and attempted to focus on his task. He was not a doctor, so he could not help Greg, and to secure his safety, it was best to find out where the attack had come from. If his gaze strayed to the door too often or he lost a train of thought because the image of Greg clutching at his bleeding side came to mind, he told himself it was only because his company was being unreasonable and loud.

He had to clutch the phone to stop his hands from shaking. He chose to put that observation aside for now.

In the end, his useless fretting combined with the authority the doctors had been informed he held did give him an advantage, however. He had gotten up to bother the nurse at the reception again only to meet her halfway.

“Mr. Lestrade woke up, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Would you care to see him?”

Usually, someone without legal or blood ties would not have been asked the same just now, but the copious amounts of high level MI5 workers had convinced the staff here to waive certain protocols. Mycroft did not particularly enjoy wielding his power in such ways, but he had also never shied away from doing it if necessary.

He followed the nurse down a long white hallway and to a door at the end of it. He could have told the others first, but this opportunity afforded him a moment alone with Greg, in case the hospital simply decided to allow uniform access to everyone in light of the ubiquitous presence of government agents – two of which stood posted outside Greg’s room for his protection. 

Mycroft entered alone and reminded himself that laying in the middle of a sparkling white set of sheets with cables and tubes hooked up to one’s wrists and hands would make anyone look lost and vulnerable and that it was no real reflection of Greg’s status.

“Hey,” Greg said, smiling tiredly, lifting one hand to wave, making the plastic lines dangling from it shiver.

Mycroft dug through his head for an appropriate response. Looking at him now, the thread of reason he’d held on to threatened to snap. If it weren’t for him, Greg would have gone back to his desk after lunch instead of fighting for his life.

“Good afternoon,” he settled, awkwardly, as he stepped up to the bed. “I haven’t seen a doctor yet. Did they tell you anything?”

“Well, the poison seems to be going out of my system and the knife pretty much just hit flesh. The stab to the gut didn’t go far in. The one in my thigh hurts like hell, but that was just muscle. I got lucky, I think.”

“Considering circumstances,” Mycroft corrected flatly. Still, he felt briefly lightheaded with the way his adrenaline spiked and fell.

Greg chuckled, winced. “Yeah. They said your people brought the antidote?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t count that among your lucky breaks. Without me and my people, you probably wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Greg shrugged. “I’d rather it’s me than you. Who was the bloke?”

“A mercenary. We’re still working on it.”

“Fair enough,” Greg murmured. “Hope you get to it quickly. He wasn’t there to kill _me_ , so who knows who else is out there?”

“You’re right, but I’m less concerned about myself at the moment,” Mycroft said. “And I admit I’m currently failing to express my gratitude that you’ve saved my life, since I’m not sure how that could be appropriately done.”

“That’s what coppers are supposed to do, right? Can’t pretend I thought much about it, I just saw he was going to cause trouble and moved. But feel free to call me your hero!”

Again, Greg huffed a quiet laugh. Mycroft could tell he was a little embarrassed, a little proud. He allowed a smile seeing Greg act like Greg. When they had arrived, the poison had already numbed him so much he’d barely reacted anymore.

He managed to shake himself free off his stiff stance by the bedside and dragged a chair closer to sit. Greg reached over, placing his hand on Mycroft’s knee, and Mycroft took it, careful not to press on the cannula.

“You alright, too? Because that was...”

Greg was too proud to say it, but of course he was afraid. Mycroft could read it in his eyes, his face, the set of his shoulders and the tension in his muscles.

“It wasn’t the first attempt on my life.”

“Oh, that makes it okay, then,” Greg muttered.

“You know that’s not what I meant. I...” Mycroft stopped himself. “It does make one wonder if it’s a smart idea to have a partner.”

Greg frowned.

“We’ve had this discussion. It’s not like I didn’t know you have enemies. Surprised it took this long for something serious to happen, to be honest. This was a pretty stark reminder, I’ll give you that, but – it doesn’t change anything. Well...”

Greg stopped himself, shook his head.

“Well?” Mycroft asked, hoping to hide his anxiety.

He knew, in his heart, that he wouldn’t send Greg away. He rationalised it a hundred ways and he was right – his connection to Greg was already known to people who wanted to hurt him, he would be a target perhaps simply because of his friendship to Sherlock, and both meant there was nothing substantial to be gained by severing their romantic relationship –, but the truth was, after two years he found it difficult to imagine letting him go. However, he would have to accept the decision if Greg chose to walk away for any reason.

“This kind of thing makes you think, right? About the stuff you probably should have done before it’s too late?”

“A common reaction,” Mycroft allowed, somewhat more curious. This sounded hopeful for him.

“Yeah.” Greg glanced out the window, softly shook his head. “You know I’ve been trying to propose to you? That’s what I was thinking about when I pulled the knife out of my thigh.”

Mycroft stared at him in abject confusion. “I – had no idea.”

“That must be new for you,” Greg joked.

Mycroft raised a brow at him, but Greg was not wrong. He’d known that it eventually was likely to become a topic, if they stayed on a good trajectory, as Greg was someone who enjoyed traditional commitment, as evidenced by how long he had held on to his failing marriage. They had even talked about the possibility and Mycroft had hinted that he would be open to it – he wouldn’t have started seriously dating Greg if he were not, for he’d figured him out on that account even before they’d had their first shared meal. However, he had counted on the fact that he would be able to tell weeks, if not months in advance if a proposal was coming.

“I wanted to make it a surprise, but I couldn’t think of a way to propose that you wouldn’t have immediately guessed.” Greg smiled. “Then again, maybe I was just a coward, too.”

“They do say there is no time like the present,” Mycroft suggested, before he could stop and consider the words.

He very rarely let anything he had not carefully considered escape him, very much not when it included asking his boyfriend to suggest a life-altering decision. Yet Greg beamed at him and Mycroft did not regret his uncharacteristic moment of thoughtlessness.

“I can’t get down on one knee, I think I’ll pull a few cables here and the doctors will get mad at me.”

He squeezed Mycroft’s hand with disconcertingly little strength, but the smile on his face was genuine despite the edge of pain to his expression. A much more foolish person than Mycroft could probably read Greg in that moment, but he had always appreciated that about him – the mystery, for Mycroft, was in how someone who so openly radiated love and affection had ended up at his side.

Greg sat up a little against the pillows, as much as he could.

“Mycroft Holmes, will you marry me?” he asked gravely.

“Since I asked you to ask me, I think you can guess my answer,” Mycroft said, placing his other hand on Greg’s, too.

“It’s a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. Don’t be clever, you prat,” Greg gave back, grinning.

Usually, Mycroft would have bantered and prolonged the conversation, but given the circumstances, and that he would have forgiven Greg for changing his mind about a proposal straight after nearly dying in service of protecting Mycroft, he decided not to. 

“Yes,” he said.

Greg opened his arms and Mycroft leaned in very carefully, hugging him without putting pressure on the wound at his side, running his thumb through the short grey hair at the back of his head, down his neck to the flimsy fabric of his hospital gown.

“I’d kiss you, but I’m worried I still have poison inside me. That wouldn’t be romantic,” Greg said.

“We’ll postpone it,” Mycroft decided, sitting back. “I will make time in the next days to-”

The door opened and Sherlock swept into the room, closely followed by a somewhat apologetic-looking John.

“Oh, you’re fine,” Sherlock said, almost dismissively, after regarding Greg for a moment.

Mycroft could tell he was relieved. He had a feeling John could, too, though he gave Sherlock a disapproving look. Greg still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Not going to die at least, no. I’m also engaged now.”

“To whom?” Sherlock asked, raising his brows.

“Come on, you can figure that one out.”

Perhaps there could have been a grander way to announce this, but Mycroft thought it was perfect, since he wouldn’t have wanted to have missed that look on Sherlock’s face for anything.

John found his tongue first.

“Congratulations,” he said, with a look of happy disbelief. “Where did that come from?”

“Desperate times,” Mycroft said.

“And, you know, love,” Greg added, rolling his eyes.

Mycroft glanced at him. “You’re such a romantic,” he teased.

“You’re stuck with it now.” 

And Mycroft could not have been happier.


End file.
